Broken Bird
by MysticVeil
Summary: Not many people can love Sherlock Holmes. He's an impossibly arrogant, unsentimental jerk. But under that, he's a wonderful, amazing person. My protector. SherlockxO.C
1. Chapter 1

My head's throbbing. My eyes open, and I can see only a small beam of sunlight shining through a crack in the wall. I'm on a mattress. A dirty mattress. The room I'm in is bare, expect for the mattress I'm lying on. I try to sit up, but the pain in my head is too much.

"Finally awake."

I look up, and I see a tall man crossing the room. Quinn, the man I fear most in the world. Quinn is only a few years older than me. I met him when I was sixteen, when my mother died. And he ruined me. Quinn is frightening, and possessive. He likes me to do things... and if I don't... he hurts me. You can't escape him, no matter how hard you try. He reaches the mattress, and kneels down beside me.

"Why did you do that?" I whisper, remembering how he grabbed my head... and then smashed it against the car.

"Well... I haven't seen you in a while... years, actually. I wasn't sure if you would come willingly," he tells me. "You know, you've spent a lot of away from me. I was told you've been with another man. What a little whore you are." he tells me, anger in his voice. My throat tightens. He's talking about Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes, the man who found me, a long time ago, and truly saved me...

_The world was spinning around me. It's been two days since I saw Quinn, and I haven't had any heroin since. I'm trembling and sweating, despite the cold temperature. It's mid-January, and a heavy rain is falling down in sheets. I stumble through the dark alleyways, no idea where I'm going or even where I am. My foot catches a rock, and I fall to the icy ground. I curl into a fetal position, not caring if anyone finds me. No one will. Who would be looking? Mother's gone... the memory of my beautiful mother coming back to me. Like my mother, I was born in Britain, but out family wasn't born here. Our family originated in Poland... but during the second World War, they were stolen from their home and sent to Auschwitz death camp. Out of a family of six, only one survived. My grandmother, that's who I'm named after. Tzipora. My grandmother was a survivor... what would she think of me now? Curled up in a ball, in the rain, suffering from heroin withdrawal. She would be ashamed of me. _

_I'm trembling violently now. But then I hear footsteps... and someone stops beside me. They kneel, and put a hand on the side of my face. They mutter something, but I can barely hear them over the loud rain and thunder. The strange man pulls me to my feet, saying things to me, but I still don't answer. He begins walking, towing me behind. I don't resist. We don't walk for long. We come to a building, a tall building. The man takes me inside, and then up to apartment. He opens the door, and leads me in. He brings me to a couch and pushes me down. _

_"Ok, answer me now. Why were you out in the rain by yourself?" he asks me. _

_"I... I was looking for... for him," I'm finally able to form words. _

_"For whom?" _

_"He... he gives me things... he hasn't given them to me in two days... I need it..." I stammer. I need it, I need it desperately. The man raises his eyebrow, and then takes my arm and examines it. And that's when he sees the needle marks plastered from my wrist to elbow. _

_"Drugs," he mutters angrily. He looks up at me, anger making his grey eyes sparkle with fire. _

_"Sherlock, might you-" I look up, and there stands another man. He's stopped mid-sentence. He stares at me, and then turns to Sherlock, staring at him with a quizzical look. "Who's this?" he asks. _

_"Don't know, what's your name?" he asks me. Sherlock, according to the other man. _

_"Tzipora," I whisper. _

_"Tzipora?" the other man whispers. He walks over to us, and Sherlock stands to his full height... he's huge. _

_"Tzipora, Hebrew for bird." Sherlock says and then grabs my arm and shows it to the other man. _

_"Needle marks," the man notes. "Heroin." Sherlock adds. He looks down at me, anger still in is eyes. "Do you know what you're doing to yourself?" he says. I look away from his penetrating gaze, not willing to admit the harm I'm doing. _

_"Sherlock, let me handle this," the other man says. Sherlock nods, and then walks away, leaving me alone with this man. Despite his angry looks and harshness, I don't want him to go. I'm scared to be left alone. But he leaves, and the other man smiles warmly. "Please don't let him bother you, he doesn't know how to be... normal. Just ignore him. I'm John, by the way. Now, what were you doing tonight, dear? You're soaked to the bone." he says. _

_"I was... I was trying to find... trying to find him. He said he would give it to me, I haven't had it in days! I need it!" I cry. He must know what I'm talking about. I need it. _

_"Listen, darling. I know this is painful, but you can't have anymore-"_

_"No! Please, please give it to me!" I cry. I try to run, but John grabs my arms and keeps me where I am. I lash out, trying to slap him to make him move, but he keeps me pinned. _

_"I'm sorry, I really am, but you can't have it. It will kill you! Please!" he pleads. I shriek, but then I know he won't let me go. I end up crying. John holds me, and then Sherlock reappears. "withdrawal," he says and looks at me with a look of disgust. I close my eyes, tears streaming down my face. He's disgusted with me... just like my grandmother would be. _

_o0o_

_I'm curled up on the rug, my hair strewn every which way. John and Sherlock have put me in a room. They don't trust me... and they shouldn't. If I left the safety of the apartment, I would just go crawling back to Quinn, and he would shoot me up, and then do horrible things to me. And I wouldn't stop him. _

_I haven't been able to sleep. I have no appetite. Everything hurts, and my body involuntarily jerks. I've vomited, and I've been so cold, even though the heat is as high as it can go. I curl up tighter, as another cold flash makes me shiver. John and Sherlock come in hourly, and almost everytime I scream at them to leave me alone. I don't want to see them, I don't want to see anyone. The door opens, and I see Sherlock. He strides in, kicking the door closed with his foot. He takes off his coat and scarf, dropping them in a heap on the floor. _

_"Warm enough?" he mutters. I'm about to yell at him, but he covers my mouth with his hand. "I have a headache, and I'm not being yelled at again." he says, anger tainting his deep voice. I scowl, and then shake off his hand. He nods, and then he hands a book he was hiding behind his back. _

_"A book?" I ask him, taking the book and turning it over in my hands. The book is a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. _

_"Read it, lying on the floor all day is bad." he says and then he leaves. _

_He comes back later, and I haven't opened the book. I know how to read, but I haven't been able to stop shaking, so the pages shake too. I couldn't read the text. Sherlock looks at me, frowning at the book beside me. _

_"I couldn't... they wouldn't stop shaking," I whisper looking down at my still shaking hands. Tears roll out of my eyes, embarrassed by my body. _

_"It's ok," he says softly. He sits down, takes the book in his hands and begins to read."__Chapter 1. When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged..._

_Sherlock Holmes helped me recover from withdrawal. He saved my life. Once I was over the violent sickness and convulsions, I was able to go back to my normal self. Sherlock cleaned me up, and brought me back to the small apartment I lived in. I lived there with my mother, and when she died the landlord allowed me to stay... he never knew about the heroin addiction. _

_Sherlock said to return to his apartment if there was any trouble. I did often. Quinn would show up outside my door, and I would run down the fire escape and to Sherlock's apartment. I would burst in, half crying. John would make me tea, and I would sleep there that night. _

_I still struggle with heroin. I still struggle with Quinn. He's as addictive as the drug is. But I've been able to avoid him for a long time. Thanks to Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes saved my life. And I love him for that. I will always love that strange man..._

Quinn hits me, and I scream. I'm used to being hit by him, but he hit me on the forehead and I scream when the pain explodes.

"Oh, my little Jew. Do you really think I wouldn't find out?" he says, laughing. Then he jumps forward and lands on me. "YOU'RE MINE! I'm the one who found you! You were nothing but a broken little girl, crying for mommy when I found you."

"I was sixteen! You gave me drugs! You gave me heroin for God's sake! I was a child! You ruined me!" I scream.

"Oh please, you would've died on the streets. No one cared about you, Tzipora, not one person." he spat.

"Just let me go-"

"SHUT UP! You will just go off and run to that guy you're with all the time!" he yells.

"How did you even find out about him?" I ask.

"Someone told me... Ever hear of Jim Moriarty?"

"Who?"

"Yeah, I thought not. Now, be a good little girl and don't scream." he says.

And then the torture starts. And I scream.

o0o

It's been days since he's taken me. I don't know how long I've been here. He's tied me up and has taken my clothes. He comes back at night usually, and then leaves in the morning. But not before he breaks me. I think he broke my wrist a few days ago... and then tied it before leaving. He also likes to cut. He got angry with me for not saying his name, so he took a knife... and cut my thighs down to my ankles. That was last night. He's left me bleeding. And now I am starting to see black... my brain is starting to go foggy... I try to focus on something... something to keep me from slipping into the dark. And I find myself thinking of Sherlock Holmes. I wonder what he's doing now? Being brilliant, of course. Maybe he just solved a case... maybe he's grumbling to John... I wonder if he's wondering where I am? Probably not... but now, I want to think of him. He makes me feel safe, a feeling I lost when my mother died and I was left alone. A small smile forms on my lips as the memory of our last time together comes back...

_I make my way through the crowded streets. It's a week until Christmas, and a soft snow is drifting through the air, snowflakes landing on my hair and face. People walk around me, children smiling and talking about Santa. I see a young couple, they can't be older than 16. The girl clings to the boy's arm, and the boy smiles softly and rests his chin on her head. _

_I catch a glimpse of the tall apartment building, the home of Sherlock Holmes. The windows are admitting a warm glow in the cold night. I stop, staring at the building. Should I go in? Sherlock doesn't particularly like it when I just show up unannounced. He gives me a lecture that a girl like me should be in studying, and then he goes off and grumbles for five minutes. _

_I take a chance. I make my way up to the apartment of Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. I knock once, and immediately I hear a the shuffle of feet, then the sound of a pile of books crashing to the ground. I hear someone curse, and then the door swings open and Sherlock stands in front of me. He's so tall, I barely reach his shoulder. I smile up at him, and in turn he scowls. _

_"What are you doing here, Tziopra?" he asks. He's wearing a dark grey shirt, like he usually does. _

_"That's rather rude, Sherlock." I say, somewhat hurt by his harsh words. _

_"You shouldn't be around here all the time. You're young, it's not... proper, for lack of better words," he says. _

_"I know... but... I have nowhere to go. And, I like coming here." I whisper. Saying I have nowhere to go is a lie... I have an apartment... but I prefer being with Sherlock. Sherlock raises his eyebrow, and then after a moment of consideration, stands aside and gestures for me to go inside. I grin and walk in to the familiar, comfortable clutter of the apartment. I see the couch and sit down, pulling my legs up to my chest. Sherlock sits down next to me, newspaper in hand. His grey eyes are running up and down the page, taking in all the information. _

_"Haven't you read that already?" I ask him. He usually reads in the morning. _

_"Mhm, but I'm reading it again," he says. _

_"Why?" _

_"Why do you ask so many questions?" he grumbles and looks at me. _

_"I just do," I say and smile at him. He smiles back, something he rarely does. _

_"Where's John?" I ask, only now noticing the absence of the always present, kind man. _

_"Out," he snaps. I cringe at the harshness of his tone, which he notices. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice so soft that I don't believe it's him. He sighs, folding the newspaper and placing it on the floor. He stands and walks over to the window, staring out at the busy street below. _

_"Stay here tonight. It's cold out, and I won't have you going to that man's house again," he grumbles. _

_"I... I won't go to him..."_

_"I know you too well, I know you're lying." he says. He sounds sad, angry. _

_"Sherlock... you know I don't want to go to him... but he's like... like a-"_

_"Drug? Addictive?" he questions. _

_"Yes. But you are too-"_

_"Don't compare me to him!" he shouts. I gasp, scared by his sudden loud tone. Sherlock looks away, almost looking ashamed. "I'm sorry," he whispers. I look up at him, scared at him like the first night we met, so long ago. He sighs, walks forwards and kisses me on the head. _

_Goodnight," he says and walks to his room, leaving me on the couch. I lie down, pulling a blanket over me. It feels like my home. I curl up, safe and warm, and fall asleep quickly. _

_o0o_

_I awake early the next day. Sherlock is still asleep. I stand and fold the blanket. I'm on my way out, but then I remember. I reach into my purse, and pull out a small package. It's a Christmas present for Sherlock. Nothing special, just a dried rose and my small silver pendant. It reads; I'll follow you into the dark. _

_My mother gave it to me... but then she died. And ever since I haven't been able to look at it. _

_I leave the package on a pile of books, and then I leave. It's cold outside, colder than yesterday. I wrap my arms around my chest, trying to stay as warm as possible. I don't where I'm going to go back to my apartment, but before I can take another step, I feel someone behind me._

_"Don't scream," they whisper. Quinn. He grabs my arm. I've tried to resist him before... but I know I can't. He's almost as tall as Sherlock, and he's pure muscle. I can't fight him. He takes me to a car, and the first thing I notice is no one is around. He opens the door, but then looks up at me, smiling. _

_"This might hurt a little," he tells me. Then he grabs my head and smashes it on the car and the world goes black..._

My eyes snap open and I shudder. I should have stayed at Sherlock's... maybe I could have been protected.

I wonder if it's Christmas yet. I don't know how long it's been since... since he's taken me. I've lost track of days. I have no idea what time it is. Quinn hasn't come yet... and I'm too weak to be happy. I just want the pain to end. But I don't get my wish. I hear a door open, then it's slams shut. I sigh, closing my eyes.

"Asleep?" he spits. "Open your eyes, broken bird." he says. I can't. I'm too tired. He grows angry, and then grabs my wrist and squeezes it. My eyes shoot open and I scream. Quinn smiles, and lets go of my wrist. I'm crying, gasping.

"I told you to open your eyes, stupid little Jew," he spits. Then he pulls out his knife, and grabs my ankle, yanking my leg. I don't know where else he can cut my legs... both of them are destroyed. As are my arms. "Say you want me." he growls. I close my eyes, shaking my head. I'll never give in to this monster... no matter what. I hear him snarl, and then he brings the knife down on my foot. The pain is unbearable. I scream, tears streaming down my face.

"SHERLOCK!" I cry. The word comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. I didn't mention him, not once. But I couldn't handle the pain anymore. I want him to save me... or I just want the pain end. For everything to end.

"He won't come! He doesn't even know where you are! He doesn't care! Don't be so blind, he hates you! Everyone does! No one wants you-"

But something makes him stop. The door opens and I hear yelling... but the world is starting to go black. Quinn runs away from me. I sigh... I can go now... I'm tired... but then I hear someone running... shouting.

"Tzipora!? Oh God, wake up! Look at me," I know that voice. Could it be... no, it can't be him. A pair of hands grab my face. I open my heavy eyelids... and I see the familiar grey irises. It is him.

"Sherlock?" I whisper.

"Yes, it's me. I've been looking for you, and I got a hint that he had you. I'm sorry, but I'm here now, nothing will hurt you, I promise." he says. He's talking so quickly I am having trouble understanding him.

"Sherlock... I can't feel my foot," I tell him. His eyes widen and he looks down at my foot. He catches his breath when he sees it.

"You'll be fine," he says. He sees the knife that Quinn used, which he left when he ran. Sherlock grabs it, and cuts the rope that binds my hands. My hurt wrist falls to the ground, and I yelp. Sherlock carefully checks it, and he frowns.

"John!" he yells. John? John's here? I smile, but then my eyelids close. I'm too tired... too tired. Sherlock says something beside me, but I can't understand. Then I feel like I'm lifted... I force my eyes open, and I see Sherlock. I smile... I feel safe once again. Then the world goes black.

o0o

Beep... beep ...beep.

That's annoying.

My eyes shoot open. I'm alive? How am I alive? I look around... I'm in a hospital room... and my eyes fall on the man sitting beside my bed. Or rather, the newspaper.

"Sherlock?" I ask.

The newspaper drops and I see Sherlock's tired face. He smiles, but then it falls and he looks at my arms. Most of the skin's covered my bandages, but some parts aren't. I glance down at my forearm, where needle marks mix with long red gashes.

"Oh, Tzipora. Why did you go to him?" he whispers.

"I didn't... he found me." I tell him.

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner. I'm sorry he hurt you so badly. He won't do it again, I promise you." he whispered. Unusually sentimental, coming from him.

"Thank you, Sherlock." I whisper. I yawn, sleep beckoning me.

"Go to sleep. You're safe now, and merry Christmas." he tells me. It's Christmas? Quinn had me for six days... I shudder at the thought of Quinn. Sherlock sees this, and frowns. "He won't hurt you anymore," he repeats. He stands, kisses me on the forehead and then leaves.

Not many people can love Sherlock Holmes. He's an impossibly aggravating, unsentimental, jerk of a man. But, under that, he's a beautiful, wonderful, amazing human. I smile, and then close my eyes, safe at last.

_**Hello :) so this is my first time attempting to write a Sherlock fanfic. Please leave a review, tell me if it's bad or if I didn't stay true to the characters... I was kind of scared to write Sherlock's character :s**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello! So I am so so very sorry about this insanely long update, but I truly had trouble writing this and coming up with an idea. This kind of just dawned on me a few days ago, so I hope it's alright! **_

It's been two months since I've been released from hospital. I'm back at my apartment, curled up in my favorite chair, a mug of tea in my hands. The steam of the hot drink rises and swirls around my nose. I breathe in the scent of Earl Grey fills my nose, relaxing me. My living room is dimly lit, only a small lamp is lit in the corner of the room. Some terrible reality TV show plays on the Telly, something about Gypsies. A thick quilt engulfs me and I relish the heat it brings. I'm always cold these days. I stay in my little cocoon for another half an hour until I'm forced to move and refill my tea-cup. I stand and tip-toe to the kitchen, carefully avoiding the pieces of glass littering the floor. The glass is from a mirror. There are no more mirrors in my apartment anymore.

After I returned home, I couldn't bear to look at myself in the mirror. I look down at my arms. The skin is mutilated. Scars run the full length of my arms... And yet, the needle marks from my heroin use is still too visible. And my legs... I can't even look at them. My foot still aches when I put weight on it. But worse than all that is my nightmares. Whenever I close my eyes... I see him. I always see Quinn. I haven't had a full nights sleep since I returned home. In the hospital, they gave me drugs that helped me sleep. But they won't give them to me anymore. The skin under my eyes has turned purple. I look like I've stepped out of the grave.

I flick on the kettle and wait for the water to boil. As I wait, I hear a creak. I shrink into the corner, hiding in the shadow cast by the fridge. I'm terrified of my house.

Quinn has stolen everything from me. My body and my piece of mind.

Suddenly, a loud knock rings through the house. I jump at the sound. I go the door, peeking through the peephole. What greets my eyes are the familiar but yet astonishing eyes of Sherlock Holmes. I open the door and he strides in, his dark curls are gleaming even in the dim lighting.

"No lights?" he asks, one eyebrow raised.

I don't answer him, and he doesn't press me. He opens his mouth to speak again, but the loud whistling of the kettle cuts him off. I go to the kitchen, but Sherlock catches my arm.

"Go sit down, I'll get it for you." he says softly. I don't argue. That's one thing I've learned about Sherlock. You never fight with him.

I return to my chair and bury myself in my quilt. I hear Sherlock pour the tea and go through the fridge, looking for milk. Moments later he reappears, two cups in his hands. He walks to the other chair, but he doesn't see the broken mirror on the floor. He steps on it, the glass crunching under his feet. He sighs and sends me a glare.

"You're going to hurt yourself, Tzipora." He says, his voice hushed.

"I'm already hurt. What else could happen to me?" I tell him. He sighs again and hands me the steaming mug. I take it from him, but some of the liquid sloshes out and falls on my hand, burning my skin.

Sherlock sits on the chair opposite me, sipping the tea as his eyes stray to the Telly. I sip the tea slowly, trying my best not to burn my tongue. Despite the blanket and hot tea, I still feel cold. A little shiver racks my spine and I shudder.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asks me.

"I always am, Sherlock." I tell him.

"Come here then," he says, using the tone that screams "Why didn't you think of this yet?"

I put my tea down and crawl into Sherlock's chair. I curl into his chest, immediately feeling his body heat. Sherlock may have no fat on his body at all, which can be attributed to how little he eats, but he always radiates body heat. Sherlock brushes my hair out of my face, and his fingers linger over the scabbed over cut under my lip. His fingers drift up and he traces over my features. But he hesitates when he reaches my eyes and a frown comes over his face.

"Have you been sleeping?" he asks me.

"Not really. I have nightmares." I tell him. His frown deepens. I hate seeing that frown. But these days, I rarely see him without it. He always has a frown on his face. I look at Sherlock, staring at his ever so familiar face. The cheek bones, the ivory skin, those remarkable eyes. But I notice the shadows under his eyes too. They match mine.

"You haven't been sleeping either, have you?" I ask him.

"I have cases. Sleeping and eating get in the way." He replies quickly.

"You still need to do those things though, Sherlock. You're only human." I tell him. He rolls his eyes. I bite my lip, keeping back the angry remark I wanted to make. Sherlock is a human trying to be a God. He thinks he can cheat the human body. He has pushed his body to inhumanly limits. It's amazing he's still alive. Sometimes, I wonder if he wants to be. I cannot blame him though. He can see everything. Every single little detail that others often don't notice or choose to ignore. But his gift allows him to see it.

His gift is also his curse.

I don't know if he realizes how... Lost so many people would be without him. I know John wouldn't be able to handle it. I certainly couldn't. If Sherlock Holmes were to die, life would be flipped upside down. Life would simply not be alright.

"Sherlock, please sleep. For me?" I ask him.

"Tzipora-"

"Do you have a case?" I interrupt.

"No, but-"

"Then you have nothing to do. Now please, sleep." I ask. He opens his mouth to argue, but then he falls silent. Then he nods. I stand up and get off him, reaching for the blanket to cover him. But he grabs my arm.

"No need for you to move. I was perfectly fine." he tells me.

"But-"

"Just shut up and lie down." he hisses. I don't argue. I take my place beside him and I lean my head on his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. Soon, Sherlock is asleep, his breath slow and steady.

Sherlock Holmes is the only man on Earth who makes me feel safe. And for the first time in two months, I don't have a nightmare.


End file.
